


Not Quite Made in China

by Della19



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-25
Updated: 2012-12-25
Packaged: 2017-11-22 08:43:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/607951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Della19/pseuds/Della19
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Four men, four suits, and yet, only one Man in the Suit.  The Feds can have Chapel’s three-they cannot have John.  John belongs to Harold, and Harold-Harold is much more dangerous than any Chinese secret agency, and much more determined-he will not let go.  And John-well, John just wants to take Harold for a ride on his motorcycle, and be happy.  Together, the odds are likely they’ll both get their wish. Finch/Reese.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Quite Made in China

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Nope, it doesn’t belong to me. Apparently my Christmas miracle didn’t come true. Ah well, at least the world didn’t end, huh?  
> Warnings: Vague spoilers for 2x10

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 _“Love is that condition in which the happiness of another person is essential to your own.”_ – Robert A. Heinlein, _Stranger in a Strange Land_

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Four men, four suits, and yet only one _Man in the Suit_.  All found in the basement of a bank that had been blown to kingdom come, dirt and grime on said suits, gunshot residue on all of their hands.

Naturally, not a single one of them will say a word. 

In fact, John hasn’t said a word since he told Finch he wouldn’t make it-since he thanked him for making him happy.

The Feds think that the _Man in the Suit_ works for a Chinese secret agency; they expect that agency to break the real _Man in the Suit_ out, and they’ve prepared for something like that.

Harold is not a Chinese secret agency; Harold is so much worse.

The last time John thanked Harold, he was dying, slipping from Harold’s grasp with every breath.

Harold saved him then; he will save him now as well.

Count on it.

Four men, four suits, and yet they only need one _Man in the Suit_. 

And they can’t have John.

Harold won’t let them.

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There is no one moment in which Harold realizes that he cannot do this alone.  No lightning bolt of insight where Finch suddenly realizes that his life is so much brighter just for having John be in it.

There are _hundreds_ of them.

Small things, like Sencha green tea, a comforting presence at his back and a gentle half smile when Finch will never admits he needs it.  And then larger things-the trust of a partner, hands that were steady as they rescued him from Root, and the gift of a dog that Finch didn’t want and now can’t imagine living without.

And yet, this thing between them an unspoken one-a thing not referenced or acknowledged.  It lives only in the warmth of John’s smile-the one he reserves only for Finch-and the panic Finch feels in his very veins when he hears the sound of gunfire across the line, the image of a too pale John all to ready in his mind, who had curled into Harold’s body when he’d been dying and Harold had been his only hope.

And then, one day, out of the blue, John says, _You make me happy_ , between the lines of his words, hidden just enough to give Harold the easy comfort of denial if he so chooses. 

And perhaps, if John hadn’t been taken, Harold would have chosen denial; would have smiled, slightly flustered-because he is always slightly flustered around John-and they would have continued in their strange limbo, two lonely men too many times bitten by the harsh realities of life.

But John is taken-smashes his phone and thanks Finch _again_ -for making him _happy_ -and then resigns himself to being put into some dark hole, away from Harold and Harold…

Harold _breaks._

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Harold is a man of extraordinary means-he can have the world at his fingers, and yet, none of it matters in the least when John is just out of his reach.

John is necessary to Harold’s happiness in the way that oxygen is necessary to his lungs-vital and simple-and how apropos as without John he finds it hard to draw a breath into his lungs.   

Harold has overheard Carter and Fusco detailing what John was like when Root had him-John would have burnt down the world to get him back, and well, what kind of man would Harold be if he did any less?

He sits down at his computer, Bear a faithful reminder of the man who ties them both together, and lights the metaphorical match. 

And those who get in his way, will _burn_.

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In the end, Harold decides to try something he so rarely resorts to.

He tries the truth.

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Well… _a_ truth.

The devil is in the details, after all.

And, if he’s being honest, Harold’s made deals with worse.

And John is certainly worth it.

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It is a surprisingly easy thing to convince Special Agent Donnelly that Reese is a CIA agent whose cover he is threatening to blow.  It was Mark Snow, not the CIA that wanted to hunt Reese.  Snow’s vendetta was personal, but the agency is a much more clinical thing.  The CIA, rather unsurprisingly, is perfectly content to have Reese remain dead on paper, so long as they don’t ever have to deal with the empirical proof of his continued existence.

Out of sight, out of mind and such.

And so, if Harold hacks their-laughably unsecure-mainframe and alters a few facts, manufactures a file or ten on the operation where John Reese is the faithful and patriotic solider chasing after the traitorous Agent Snow, and his three suit wearing lackeys-who have been selling secrets to the Chinese, because Special Agent Donnelly is rather focused on the Chinese -then the agency either doesn’t notice or pretends not too. 

It’s probably the former, but well, modestly and all that.

Special Agent Donnelly naturally soaks it up like a sponge, hanging on every word that Harold feeds into the earpieces of his associates, because everyone loves a good drama-the age old story of good vs. evil-and frankly, that part isn’t even a lie.

He is less than thrilled when Mr. Smith and Mr. Jones-the two gentlemen that Finch used to retain before Reese made all other alternatives irrelevant-take all four men into their “custody” and disappear into the night, placing black bags over their heads before heading to the location that Finch has previously specified. 

But Harold has worked the red tape so well that the Agent’s hands might as well be physically tied, and well, if the good Agent will be too busy in the future with his promotion to the FBI’s liaison with the Chinese government-a position that will keep him firmly half-way around the world from Harold and John, then that’s just a lovely coincidence, isn’t it?

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Of course it isn’t.

But it is fate.

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When the car housing the center of Finch’s world-and three other, entirely irrelevant men-pulls into the deserted shipping yard, Finch is as outwardly calm as a still lake, even if beneath the surface his pulse is a livewire that thrums wildly at the knowledge that John is once again within his reach.

But, he is reminded as Mr. Smith herds Chapel’s three men out into the yard, heads still covered, hands still bound-business first.

“Gentleman,” Finch says to the three faceless men, whose blind eyes whip in the darkness towards the source of his voice, “In front of each of you lies a duffle with enough money for you to disappear and live a very comfortable life, very far from here.  And all you need to do to earn it is to run, and never come back.”

And then, voice a serious as death, no hint of mercy to be found, not the man who spends his time striving to put men like them away for a long time for their crimes, but instead entirely the man who will do everything in his power to save his partner, “Or, you can decline my generous offer, and disappear into a very dark hole, for a very, _very_ long time.”

“The choice is entirely yours,” he begins, slow and measured, “but I, if given the choice, would run,” he says, as pleasantly as can be, and the tone in his voice has terrified businessmen and built and destroyed empires. 

They run, and Harold doesn’t look back.

He knows they’ll never see them again.

Once he knows that they are gone, Harold wastes no time in making his way into the car where John still waits, and hastens to remove the hood from John’s head, already regretting the necessity of the thing that can only bring back bad memories.  His hands may fumble once or twice untying the hood, and if they linger for a second too long on the strong angles of Reese’s face, the man is too kind to mention it.

Instead, he simply blinks up at Harold, letting his eyes once again adjust to the light, and once they have, Harold says, a sense of déjà vu creeping over him, “Sorry I took so long Mr. Reese.”

John clearly recognizes the turn of phrase as he smiles that smile he gives only to Harold, before he parrots back the very familiar response, “I really didn’t intend you to come for me, Mr. Finch,” though the lack of surprise in his eyes suggests otherwise, and even as he finishes, there is a teasing light in his eyes, “There are other people who need your help.”

“Well, you saved my life once or twice John,” Harold says, and the intimacy of his first name is a deliberate thing that sets a whole new light into John’s eyes, one that warms the very core of Harold, causing him to almost stutters as he finishes their little exchange, “seemed only fair that I return the favor.”

There is a moment then, of silence, weighted with a tension that is undeniably pleasurable, broken only when Harold feels that if he remains silent, he might do something that will scandalize the stalwart Mr. Jones and Mr. Smith who are currently in the process of taking them back to the library, “Well, Mr. Reese, you’re once again a free man.  Did you make any plans during your brief incarceration if such an event occurred?”

“Well,” Reese says, in that slow drawl of his, his voice entirely a tease that tickles Harold’s very _nerves_ , “I might have one.”

The look in his eyes suggests he might have more than just _one_ , and that they would _certainly_ scandalize an audience.

Harold finds that he’s looking forward to them.

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When they’re alone, of course.

The sight of John’s pleasure belongs solely  to him.

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Somehow, after the events of the last few days, it seems an entirely natural thing for Harold to find himself on the street in front of the library, staring at John, who, attired in leather and denim and a motorcycle helmet with the visor tilted upwards so that Harold can see his little smile, makes entirely too handsome a picture resting on his sleek motorcycle.

“I was wondering if you might enjoy another motorcycle ride Finch,” John says, canting his hips just so that Harold has no hope of responding any other way than to make his way over to the bike, carefully swinging his leg over so that he fits into the curve of Reese’s strong back, anchoring himself to Reese by his hands that creep around the strong solidness of Reese’s torso.

Reese simply smiles, before he twists, the movement so smooth that Harold’s hands are not dislodged, and hands Harold the helmet that bears a striking suspicion of an article hand-crafted just for Harold, which Harold puts on, but leaves the visor open, even as he moves back into the solidness of Reese’s body, attempting to draw that quiet strength into himself, because there is still one important thing that needs to be said.

“You make me happy as well, Mr. Reese,” he says finally, confidence gathered, the last piece of their pleasingly symmetrical dance, into the comfortable warmth of Reese’s back, too loud for it to be not heard, because Finch is quite done with denial. 

“Good,” Reese says simply in response, and everything that he does not say Finch hears clearly in the sheer promise in his voice, that sends shivers down to his very soul.

Yes, Finch is certainly looking forward to those _other things_.

It is the first time Harold has wrapped his legs around Reese’s hips, the first time he has felt the solidness of Reese’s body against his own, the strength of Reese’s powerful thighs beneath his hands.

From the purr in Reese’s voice, Harold knows it will not be the last.

But that is the future, and Harold, for once, is entirely content to remain confined to the present, where after taking a moment to allow both John and Harold to flip down their visors, Reese rev’s up the powerful machine and with one last cheerful, “Hold on tight,” takes off into the night.

Harold curls closer, feels the wind at his back and Reese at his front, and smiles.

He is happy.

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FIN

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**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Yeah, so I wasn’t the only one who caught the part where Reese basically told Finch that he makes him happy right? Seriously, the slash is almost hard to ignore at this point! Good thing I’m not trying to ignore it, huh? Also, I’m thinking of doing a Reese’s compliment/sort-of sequel to this (tentatively titled The Pursuit of Happiness), and I’ve also been fighting a battle with myself over writing a POI/Dollhouse crossover, and I’m currently losing the war, so that might make an appearance sometime in the New Year (maybe). That said, happy holidays to all, and as always I hope you enjoyed, and reviews and constructive criticism are welcome.


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